


Median

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5334458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros tries to bridge the gap between his king and prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Median

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Lewd thoughts keep Maedhros up. The night’s long fallen, the stars pressing insistently through the cracks in their curtains, and the bed is comfy, warm, particularly with Fingon’s prone body in his arms. Fingon is mostly asleep, facing out into the room, but he occasionally stirs when Maedhros, draped around his back, licks at the back of his ear and grinds their hips together.

“You’re insatiable, Maitimo,” Fingon murmurs around a yawn, slurring his name and slipping back to dreamland. Maedhros _tries_ to let his lover sleep but has such an eager mind. He’s been healing. His hair’s grown back to its full length, tangled along the same pillow as Fingon’s, though he still only has one set of fingers to splay along Fingon’s chest. He’s better _because_ of this prince in his arms and the king that took him in. 

And all he can think about tonight is the two of them, so achingly handsome and so _very good to him_. But one thing troubles him still. Their relationship is complicated. It took many words, many feelings, and several moons to work out, though it isn’t yet so complete as Fingon and his father like to pretend. Maedhros still wonders—what of the days when he isn’t there? What if he hadn’t come back at all?

None of this would be, likely. Fingon would be horribly _alone_ , even though there are always two in his bed, when he’s not accompanying Maedhros in another. He sleeps soundly in just Maedhros’ embrace, but he deserves _more_.

Maedhros is more than relieved when the door finally creaks open. The warrior that slips inside is poised, graceful and deliberately quiet, shutting the door as silently as possible. He divests himself of certain effects—his cloak and stray pieces of armour and jewelry—as he comes to the bed. Fingon is very busy, but Fingolfin is more so, not just a king but a _leader_ in every sense: a soldier, a scholar, a peacekeeper. He always looks tired when he comes home, and Maedhros always longs to soothe him.

Maedhros doesn’t need to move. He stills his mouth along Fingon’s elegant neck, all the dark hair brushed aside. Fingolfin wanders over to the bed, side-lit in the moonlight, and sits deftly on the mattress. He sees the flash of Maedhros’ eyes and smiles for it, leaning over to brush his lips along Maedhros’ waiting ones. Maedhros lifts up enough to apply a bit of pressure, to _feel_ his king against him—he wanted this for so long, and Fingolfin never disappoints. Even with his kiss as chaste as it is, it’s full and ripe with adoration. As Maedhros settles afterwards, Fingolfin ducks to his own child, chastely pecking Fingon’s cheek. 

Fingon shifts again. His head tilts up, so that Maedhros can see the fluttering open of his eyes. Fingolfin murmurs, “I am sorry, love. I did not mean to wake you.”

Maedhros is the one to answer, quiet but with a hint of a chuckle in his voice, “That was not a particularly rousing kiss.”

Fingolfin looks at him, quirking one eyebrow. “What do you mean, Nelyo?”

Fingon looks back too, rolling slightly in Maedhros’ arms to peer over his shoulder, and Maedhros adjusts his grip below the covers but doesn’t loosen it. With both his lovers watching him, he admits slowly, “It had occurred to me tonight... I am always in the middle. And that hardly seems fair.” Fingon’s eyebrows knit together, awake now and processing the implications, while Fingolfin frowns and says nothing. Maedhros carefully continues, his hand lifting to clasp Fingolfin’s firm bicep through his taut tunic, “Surely, our brave king deserves to be the one receiving such attention, devotion from both ends, on occasion... or our valiant prince, who is no less worthy and the pride of us all...”

Fingon’s cheeks seem to stain a tad darker in the pale light. Fingolfin’s face has taken on the vague glimmer of _guilt_ it so often does. Neither of them denies Maedhros’ observation nor attempts to explain it away. Fingon is deliberately looking away, not at his father, and Maedhros is sure that the issue stems from Fingolfin, who is older, wiser, more patient and far too restrained and just for his own good. Maedhros half expects Fingolfin to bid them a good night and leave.

Instead, Fingolfin asks quietly, “What would you have me do?”

Nonetheless prepared, Maedhros answers simply, “Give your son a proper kiss.”

Fingolfin sighs. Maedhros can hear the heaviness in it and is both surprised and pleased when it doesn’t end their interaction. Fingolfin lowers his hand to Fingon, knuckles trailing lightly along Fingon’s cheek. Maedhros finally relaxes his hold, and Fingon squirms onto his back for it, head nestled on the pillow so very close to Maedhros’. The new angle makes it easier for Fingolfin to bend down to him. 

Fingolfin brushes his lips, feather-soft, over Fingon’s, and Maedhros can hear Fingon’s sharp intake of breath. Then he rises, tilting up his chin to press harder into his father, and Fingolfin responds, hand now slipping down to firmly cup his cheek and hold him in place. Maedhros watches, entranced, as Fingolfin opens wider, tongue slipping down into his son’s waiting mouth. Fingon’s gasp is audible, his response evident. He tilts his head to the side, nose dragging across Fingolfin’s, dark lashes against his cheeks and chest arching up as though he can’t restrain himself. Fingon has always been to Maedhros the height of beauty, but the two of them together is devastating: so gorgeous that Maedhros can barely contain himself and doesn’t dare to blink, doesn’t wish to miss even a fraction of a second. He watches Fingolfin scrape blunt teeth along Fingon’s plush bottom lip, nip lightly and tug, and when it looks as though he’ll pull back, he’s drawn in for another, Fingon’s mouth too eager and alive to resist. Their tongues circle around one another in the middle, probing lightly and taking turns slipping into alternative mouths. Fingolfin’s strong jaw is soon opening and closing, working steadily at his prize. Maedhros wonders distantly if they experience the same pleasure when watching each other play with him, but he doubts it could be so _intense_ —he loves them both _so much_ , and they look so alike, so _handsome_ , and there’s a sharp tease of debauchery: this is _father and son_ , embraced as lovers.

Fingolfin is the one to break them apart. It leaves Fingon breathing hard, ragged, eyes still closed as Fingolfin presses their foreheads together. He keeps his hand cupping Fingon’s cheek. He adjusts his body, shifting properly onto the bed, so that he’s on all fours above Fingon’s form, half covered in the blankets. Maedhros means to be still but can’t stop himself from darting forward to leave a wet kiss on the side of Fingon’s jaw. Fingon’s eyes slit open to look at him. 

Turning curiously to Fingolfin, Maedhros asks, “Would you fuck him for me?” He says it as innocently as he can manage and rests his head on Fingon’s shoulder. 

Fingolfin doesn’t answer. He looks down at them, clearly in inner turmoil, and strokes Fingon, idly reaching back to brush through some of Fingon’s long, dark strands. While Fingolfin plays with his hair, Fingon murmurs, “I would gladly have you, Atar.” His pupils are more dilated, his skin hotter.

Fingolfin looks at Fingon so _adoringly_ , but still sighs, “Another time, perhaps.” He’ll need time, as he always does, to admit his perverse desires. They allow him it. 

Maedhros, now too aroused to forgo them, tries, “Will you pound me into him, then?” 

Fingolfin’s lips twitch in a smile, and he shakes his head, as though disbelieving. Maedhros was raised very differently and has faced the all too real possibility of mortality; he wishes to feel everything he can as soon as he can, and he isn’t afraid to say so. 

He’s rewarded with a nod, and in his peripherals, he can see Fingon joining in his smile. The two of them reach out to strip away Fingolfin’s clothes and pull him closer, down into their glorious sin.


End file.
